Chapter Forty-Two: The Devotee

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The tenth year of Southern Ming, the fifth day of the fifth month.

A grand slave competition commenced. At the blare of a horn, the valves confining the slaves opened, and countless terrified slaves burst forth.

This was a contest of life and death.

The area was cordoned off, and across dozens of kilometers of grassland, many slaves were scattered.

Collars marked with brands hung around their necks as they scrambled desperately for their lives.

Run—run faster!

Otherwise, death awaited them.

They had to be swift, swifter than those beside them.

An arrow sliced through the sky, piercing straight into one man. His eyes widened in terror, and in an instant, he ceased to breathe.

"Excellent! Excellent! General Li truly lives up to his family's reputation; his archery is unmatched!"

On the grandstands, a cluster of elegantly dressed nobles applauded enthusiastically, cheering. In their eyes, human life was worth less than grass.

The whistling of arrows grew ever more frequent, and panic spread among the slaves as they fled in all directions.

A moment’s hesitation meant certain death.

Yet every fall was met with a round of cheers.

Excitement surged; the nobles on the stands watched with relish, crying out in delight from time to time.

Horse hooves rose and fell. A group of richly clad nobles watched the field intently. As the number of surviving slaves dwindled, their anticipation grew.

This was a contest of blood and honor. Everyone vied for victory; no one cared about the slaves’ lives. Such was the mind of those in power.

Only a dozen or so slaves remained on the field, among whom one man drew every eye.

He had long hair and dark eyes, his body covered in scars, tattered clothes revealing a sturdy frame.

Just the sight of him made many of the noble ladies blush.

But it was his agility that truly amazed the crowd. Dozens of arrows targeted him at once, yet he still managed to evade the inescapable net.

Interest flared among the nobles—they began to hunt him with intent.

His skill surpassed all expectations. He dodged round after round of deadly attacks.

"Fascinating—this slave is truly something."

"Wang, let’s pincer him—you from the left, I’ll take the right!"

"Understood."

Now, they ignored the other slaves entirely and closed in on him.

The rain of arrows grew thicker, and many on horseback closed in from both sides. There was nowhere left for him to hide.

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Even with his exceptional skills, the man was eventually wounded. Fortunately, the injury wasn’t fatal, and he was still able to cope.

"Wang, Zhong, are you two even capable? If not, just let me handle it."

"Exactly, he’s just a slave—can’t you manage him?"

Zhongli’s face stiffened. "Are you joking? A mere slave, and you think I can’t handle him?"

With that, Zhongli threw aside all decorum, spurring his horse toward the man from a cunning angle—either he would shoot him dead, or his horse would trample him.

A smug smile flashed in Zhongli’s eyes, as if victory was already his.

The crowd on the grandstand rose to their feet, eager to witness this "spectacular" moment.

The system tensed, unable to hold back a warning: [Host.]

Mo Nianian remained calm. [Let’s watch a bit longer.]

[Alright.] The system fell silent again.

Mo Nianian’s gaze stayed fixed on the field. The man suddenly swept out his leg, toppling Zhongli’s horse to the ground by sheer force.

Such power—truly terrifying.

Zhongli was thrown down, drawing a wave of laughter from the crowd. Humiliated, he vented his anger on the man beside him.

Ignoring the rules of the competition, he drew the sword at his waist.

This damned slave!

"Bang! Time’s up!"

A eunuch struck the gong, his shrill voice resounding across the field.

All the slaves instantly breathed a sigh of relief, weeping with joy, clutching their heads and sobbing.

They had been granted a new lease on life.

"Zhong, are you really trying to break the rules?"

Zhongli forced a stiff smile, slowly sheathing his sword. "How could I? With His Majesty here, how would I dare?"

It was only a slave—he had plenty of ways to deal with him.

Zhongli sneered coldly.

The remaining slaves were led away. They had survived this ordeal, and if luck favored them, perhaps they might even catch the eye of a noble and escape their wretched fate.

Servants began to clear the field and tally the nobles' trophies.

Arrows protruded from the corpses, and no one cared whose they were.

"Young Master Wang performed admirably—eighteen trophies in total!"

"General Li is indeed a scion of warriors—twenty-nine in such a short time!"

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"It seems no one can surpass General Li. Hahaha, congratulations!"

General Li beamed with pleasure. "You flatter me. Many colleagues performed well today. I was merely lucky."

"General Li, you are too modest."

Zhongli’s face twisted with disdain. "Heh, the victor is not yet certain."

The two could not stand each other, not even bothering with pleasantries, and soon turned away to converse with others.

At last, the results were tallied: Li had twenty-nine, Zhongli twenty-eight.

A single point—worlds apart. General Li received a mountain of rewards, and Zhongli only a single compliment.

Zhongli grew ever more furious, blaming everything on that damned slave.

He knelt. "Your Majesty, I have a request."

"Speak, my loyal subject."

"I would like to ask Your Majesty to bestow that slave upon me. His skills are truly impressive—I am very satisfied."

Malice flashed in his eyes. Everyone knew his intent, but none cared—it was just a slave.

A trivial matter. The emperor nodded slightly, "Granted—"

"Your Majesty, your humble daughter also quite likes that slave," Mo Nianian spoke slowly, and the entire hall fell silent.

They exchanged glances, not daring to make a sound.

The old emperor cast a wary glance at Mo Nianian.

He turned to Zhongli, who, though seething, was forced to yield. "Since the princess desires him, I will gladly yield."

No one in the world would dare compete with this little ancestor.

The old emperor, finding an escape, smiled at once. "Since the princess wants him, let it be so. Bring him forth!"

A young eunuch trotted over, leading the man from before.

The man kept his head lowered, hair veiling his face. Mo Nianian approached, chin lifted. "Raise your head."

Slowly, the man looked up, revealing a strikingly handsome face. Mo Nianian’s heart skipped a beat—damn, he looked at least eighty percent like the male lead from her previous world.

Mo Nianian asked, "What is your name?"

"I have no name. Please, Mistress, grant me one." He lowered his head again.

The sight of him made Mo Nianian think of that dog of a male lead from her last life, and the more she looked, the less she liked this man. "In that case, you’ll be called Dog."

Snickers rippled through the crowd, but the man showed no reaction. His voice was almost devout: "Thank you, Mistress."